I have something to tell you all. It’s not good. Not good at all. But I feel I must share it if I am to have any hope of ever moving on. This horrible truth is tearing me apart.
Last weekend I visited my parents. Before I left, I decided to clean a few things out of my old room — you know, so my parents house isn’t junked up with my old stuff. As I was going through my closet I came across … I came across … oh, it’s almost too much to bear … I came across this …
Yes. It seems as though at some time in my childhood I owned a Duke basketball jersey. Perhaps I even wore it out in public. I must have worn it to high school basketball practice. Our colors were blue and white. Does that explain it away? Oh, please say so, God! I cry out to you, Lord! No, that can’t be it. The jersey isn’t reversible. Wearing it at practice makes no sense. I am tortured!
I know my hipster love or irony was not developed enough in my teenage years to ironically purchase a Duke jersey back then. Or was it? Can I pretend to know anything about myself now? Who am I?
I truly have no recollection of ever wanting a Duke jersey. Or ever rooting for Duke. In fact, I naturally assumed — like any person who tries to live a good life — that I have always hated Duke. Right from the womb. But there was the cold reality staring me in the face: DJ Gallo … Duke fan?
No, it’s too horrible to even think.
Dare I ever look in the closet in my old room again? What else could I find in there? What other horrible truth could I discover about my youth?
Unless I find the corpse of … say, Cherokee Parks … buried way in the back of the closet, instantly jarring my memory: “Ahh, yes! My childhood was also full of noble pursuits like murdering Duke players! And that the Duke jersey I originally found was ripped off of him in the struggle,” … short of that, I fear I have a lifetime of sobering reflection and self-loathing ahead of me.
I hate myself.
And you should hate me, too.